Hark! Surely I heard something!"
Both listened intently. Footsteps were approaching the door. Daisy
sprang to open it.
But it was only the evening post, and she came back holding a letter
with a very unwonted expression of disappointment.
"From Will," she said. "I forgot it was mail night. I don't suppose
there is anything very exciting in it."
She pushed the flimsy envelope into the front of her dress and fell
again to listening.
"Can he have missed the train? Surely it's getting very late. A fog on
the line perhaps. No! What's that? Ah! It really is this time. That's
the horn, and, yes, Jim Ratcliffe's voice."
In a moment she had the door open again, and was out upon the step
crying welcome to her guest.
Muriel crouched a little lower over the fire. Her hands were fast
gripped together. It was more of an ordeal than she had thought it
possibly could be.
An icy blast blew in through the open door, and she heard Dr.
Ratcliffe's voice, sharp and curt, ordering Daisy back into the
house. Then came another voice, slow and soft as a woman's, and for an
instant Muriel covered her face, overwhelmed by bitter memory.
When she looked up they were entering the hall together, Daisy,
radiant, eager, full of breathless questioning; Blake, upright,
soldierly, magnificent, wearing the shy, pleased smile that she so
well remembered.
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